Learning You Again
by HerbalTea-and-Tarzan
Summary: Reuniting with her childhood friend was all Apolline wanted after being gone for 5 years. Being diagnosed with hysteria in taboo-centric France doesn't make things easier. Enjolras can't handle any distractions, especially Apolline with her strong ideas and constant bothering. But relearning another person is hard, and it's even harder to admit what makes you afraid. Enjolras/OC
1. Author's Note

**Hello! You may have noticed that I've removed some chapters. I decided that this story needed a little more oomph with the main character so I wanted to add some rewrites to explore her character a bit more, thus changing some elements of the fanfiction. These chapters added are very similar to the originals but with some additions, these will accumulate into more developed plot points later on. I apologize if this is confusing, but I promise the rewrites are better.**

 **Full Synopsis:**

 **Feeling isolated due to her recent diagnosis with hysteria, Apolline Rougeaux longs to return home to Paris after being gone for five years to pick up where she left off; a controversial education from her University Professor father, mischief with her impetuous friends, and reconnecting with her oldest playing and debating companion, Julien Enjolras.**

 **But five years is a long time, and a lot has changed in Paris by the time she returns home in 1831. A new king sits on the throne and class unrest stirs like a sleeping storm.**

 **Apolline is planted into a different situation than she imagined it would be. Her friends have deserted her, and she is finding it difficult to regain the close relationship she once had with Enjolras, who, frustratingly, can't seem to shake her from his thoughts.**

 **Trapped inside a body that revolts against her, Apolline is faced with the daunting task of finding her place in this new Paris with the Les Amis, and understanding the forbidden mechanisms of her body during the disturbing, yet pleasurable, treatments she receives for her illness.**

 **Thank you for your support!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Thank you for baring with me during this weird and crazy transition. This is generally the same stuff, but with additions. Please favorite, follow, and review!**

* * *

Dizziness, shortness of breath, emotional outbreaks, fainting. It all comes over me in sudden tidal waves that make me feel like I'm dying.

It's because of this that I'm lying on the edge of my bed in one of the spare guest-rooms of grandmother's estate in Lyon, wearing nothing but my nightgown and pantalets while Dr. Lavelle pokes and prods my abdomen. My knees to the ceiling and my body as stiff as a corset, I do my best to repress the embarrassed blush that threatens to creep up my neck to my face. So many doctors, so many physicians, but none have ever pleased Maman enough for her to actually let them examine me further than to conclude a simple diagnosis.

Maman sits aside, and I'm certain she hasn't blinked once. Her daughter's future is at stake here; I need to be in marriageable condition before I return to Paris. She can't risk anything getting in the way of me marrying well.

The mid-June warmth has already seeped through the window and closed curtains. It's not making it easy to calm me and reduce the heat of discomfort of being touched and groped by a man who is almost a complete stranger. I'm thankful for the cool cotton of my nightgown, but Dr. Lavelle's warm, bony hands begin to lie flat against my lower abdomen. Much lower than I would like them to be.

My eyes glance toward Maman who seems completely content with where he is putting his hands. I clear my throat, rolling my eyes back to Dr. Lavelle.

"Are there any female physicians or doctors studying maladies of the female body?" I ask, the warmth pooling in the back of my neck against my hair.

Dr. Lavelle snorts and chuckles. That makes it four times I've witnessed him doing that since I met him. He only does it when I've said something he deems preposterous and silly. For a thirty year-old unmarried physician studying the woman's body, I can imagine he thinks a lot of things are preposterous and silly.

"Women don't belong in such practices. Besides, every woman I've encountered has dropped unconscious at the sight of blood." He pressed a hand below my rib cage.

My breath hitches in the back of my throat. "I mean, all I'm saying is I don't think anyone understands the woman's body better than women themselves."

"Apolline, hush!" Maman hisses. "Let Dr. Lavelle do his work without you muttering your insanity."

I clench my teeth, ashamed, while my face flushes at her words. It's not the first time I've heard the term from her mouth. I've heard it enough after many visits with fellow Parisian friends touring Europe themselves as their debut gift; girls who are my equal. At least in class, but clearly not in thought.

To clear my mind of the embarrassing predicaments I put me and Maman in earlier in the trip, my fingers tap against the white sheets and I breathe deeply.

I hate this, this must be some sort of infringement on my rights. But in 1831, if it's in the name of science or God, it doesn't matter. I sigh heavily, earning a stern look from Maman.

"Maman, have we gotten any letters from our dear neighbors since we've arrived here? I wrote to Julien a couple of weeks ago telling him we'd be here, and that we'd likely be returning to Paris very soon. Five years is an awfully long time to be away from home, and I can only imagine everything Julien has been up to." Dr. Lavelle presses his hand down on my lower abdomen, much closer to an area of my body I would rather he avoid. It forces a low moan to escape from my throat.

"Julien?" Dr. Lavelle asks, looking toward Maman.

"Just a childhood friend of hers," Maman intercedes. "His parents are our neighbors, and he's studying at the university. Apolline, mon cher, I've told you before, we can't return to Paris until you're well enough. So much is going on in the city, what with the new Orleans king; all of the excitement could make it worse."

"Papa wrote that he has more books for me to read. He says he managed to get copies of Mary Wollstonecraft's _The Female Reader_ and _Thoughts on the Education of Daughters_." I wiggle with giddy joy. There is nothing better than Mary Wollstonecraft, and Papa, in this world.

"Apolline!" Maman hisses again.

I can only think of new, beautiful copies of Mary Wollstonecraft's brilliant mind, and Julien, probably pouring over his own books as we speak. Always busy, always reading, always studying. I can't think of a time he wasn't doing any of those things. Perhaps before he turned twelve.

I close my eyes with a sigh, chewing the inside of my lips. I try to relax, ignoring the continued gropes and pressing, and allow my weight to sink into the feather bed beneath me. My breathing begins to calm…

I shoot up into sitting position with a gasping shriek, snatch my pillow from behind me, and give Dr. Lavelle a firm whack over the head.

"Apolline!" Maman screeches.

"Hold her arms down," Dr. Lavelle orders.

Before I know it, Maman has bolted around the side of the bed, leaning over me and pinning my arms to the bed. I squirm and struggle to try to make it as difficult as I possibly can before he continues to stick his hand wherever he wants. I land a kick to his shoulder and he stumbles back, his oval wire glasses hanging from one ear.

"Mon cher, calm down! Let the doctor examine you and try to find a diagnosis," Maman pleads.

Dr. Lavelle adjusts his glasses back on his straight nose. "I can assure you, Mademoiselle Rougeaux, this is all necessary in treating you."

My eyes sear into the doctor's face. "How does pressing your hand between my legs treat me?!"

Maman gasps. "Apolline!"

I don't care that what I just said was inappropriate. I'm not about to allow some man do what he feels is treatment while violating me.

My heart feels like it's pacing to a death march, fast and ominous and frightful; knowing what is coming. A cool sweat brushes over my flushed face and dampens my hair line, making strands on the back of my neck paste themselves to my skin. Nausea numbs my throat, and I lurch forward as it contracts, but nothing comes out. I flop back down onto the bed, my sight blurring and making the room spin while Maman shrieks.

Limbs going loose, except for my hands tightening around Maman's wrists, my chest heaves with each gasping breath.

"' _The imagination is always restless…',"_ I cough out, trying to straighten my thoughts, _" 'and suggests a variety of thoughts, and the will, reason being laid aside, is ready for every extravagant project_ …'…John Locke, _First Treatise of Govern...ment…_ "

The ease falls over my eyes, and I slip under the heavy weight of sleep. Once again, the burst of colors against the darkness explodes into cool silver light. The only release from the symptoms. Because at least pleasant dreams and visions and memories follow.

* * *

" _Will you write to me?"_

 _Muffled piano melodies accompany the fog that drifts over a pale gray colored room. It's more joyful than one would expect. The music is sweet and reminiscent of early spring afternoons, spoonfuls of honey, and tangled messes of curls._

" _Promise me you will."_

" _Er..."_

 _There are no faces to put to the voices._

 _A giggle flits into the air, flying away like a bluebird._

" _I know you're busy with school and changing the world, but surely you can spare some time to write to your oldest friend."_

 _An awkward sigh. I can feel the hot breath against my ear._

" _Well, I'll be writing to you as often as I can. Don't worry, I won't bore you with pages and pages on balls and parties and who's marrying who. But I do expect to have a novel of your letters by the time I return about everything you're learning."_

 _A silence follows, one filled with expectant energy and mild discomfort._

" _It's not embarrassing to still be friends with a woman, you know," the voice is now soft, the once energetic pep floating into warm lightness. "There's no shame in it."_

" _L-listen, we've reached points where it's just not..." The strong tenor voice reverberates like church bells in my ears. "We have different things we need to focus on. And they don't combine well with each other. We just..."_

 _He stumbles over his words, trying to find the right ones to use._

 _A small, almost ladylike snort forms. "Gentlemen, as soon as they grow up they forget that women are living, thinking people too."_

" _Apolline-"_

" _Julien?" I can see the cunning smile and the cocked eyebrow, urging him to continue._

 _There's no one there, but I can see it so clearly in my mind._

* * *

Even though my fits make me feel as though the world is coming to a terrible end, the dreams I have are always pleasant.

My eyelids flutter open and I find that I'm still lying in bed. The dampness between my legs rattles me and I roll off the bed, tugging the pantalets down to my ankles. In my bare skin, I kick the damp undergarments into the wardrobe. There wasn't a stain of any kind, just a wet spot. Nonetheless, I didn't want to continue wearing it; it is only more proof of my condition, one that no one seems to understand. Which only makes it more isolating.

In clean undergarments, I slip my arms through the slits of a brocade robe to cover my indecency while I roam grandmother's estate in search of Maman. Faint conversations seep through the crack underneath the door of the parlor. I brace myself while I step down the stairs, the portraits of irrelevant relatives staring at me the whole way down. I know full well Dr. Lavelle is in the parlor with Maman, and possibly with my grandmother. She's the one who introduced us after all.

I creak the door open, catching a glimpse inside. Maman and Dr. Lavelle sit in chairs on opposite sides of the room. Grandmother as usual is nowhere to be seen. She is probably at Madame Valoit's home, catching up on the latest gossip in the town. I slip through the crack, closing the door behind me with a click.

"Apolline, mon cher, how are you feeling?" Maman hold her hand out to me.

Without a word, I stride towards a mahogany chair next to Maman near the bookcase, grabbing her hand once it's within reach. "I am fine," I assure her, giving my sweetest smile, the kind that always convinces her of my contentment, one I typically save for Papa. I turn to Dr. Lavelle next. "I apologize, Dr. Lavelle, for my... fit earlier. I understand you were only doing your job. I don't know what came over me."

Dr. Lavelle removed his glasses from his nose to clean them with the handkerchief he kept in his waistcoat pocket, where most gentlemen would keep their pocket watch. But not him. "No need to trouble yourself over it, Mademoiselle Rougeaux. In fact, I half expected it to happen. Irritability and emotional outbursts are common symptoms of hysteria. Including fainting. I'd say you are a very serious, and interesting case."

Maman clutches the arm of her chair. "Hysteria? Dr. Lavelle, are you quite certain?" I'm sure her face would melt to the floor if it sags lower into despair.

"Without a doubt, Madame. I've only encountered it a few times while I was a young man studying in university. Even then it was only touched upon slightly. But I can say for certain that your daughter suffers from it," Dr. Lavelle returns the handkerchief to his pocket and situates his glasses back onto his face.

A whimper escapes from Maman. It's as she feared. To her, this is worst possible thing it could be. I can't help but let my heart sink in shame when I see her hand shoot to cover her mouth. Of course I'm always more trouble than I should be. I always have been. I gather my waist length hair over my shoulder and begin to braid, unsure if I want to add anything to what was just said.

"Dr. Lavelle, how serious is it? There must be some way to cure her. We will do anything for any information you have that you can give us to help Apolline," she begs. Seeing Maman drown herself in this much worry makes my body weigh ten times more than it does. Hearing Dr. Lavelle inform us that I am a serious case curdles my stomach.

The physician holds his hand up with a smile, something I don't think I've seen but once. His face seems to be made of straight and tight lines, making him appear constantly uninterested and plain. The smile brings a flush of calm over Maman's face and I reach out to hold her hand again.

"Now, now, Madame, I can assure you that any and all information will be shared with you, no payment needed. I only want to make sure Mademoiselle Rougeaux's health is at its best." He relaxes into his chair. "Despite what you might think, this malady has been rather common for the past thousand years. Hippocrates was the first to coin the term. Of course, we know far more about men's and women's bodies now than he did. What doctors and physicians, such as myself, have researched over the past couple hundred years, is that hysteria may perhaps be caused by excessive female fluids in the lower abdomen."

It's clear that he practiced saying those words carefully in his head. Being a physician, he has to be forward about health, but he believes that saying such things would make any woman uncomfortable. And it is uncomfortable, at least to my mother. She coughs and looks aside, squeezing my hand.

Dr. Lavelle takes that as a cue to continue. "The mixture of fluids during relations with one's husband is said to be helpful to relieve symptoms of hysteria. And yet, I know of some patients for whom that doesn't help. There are several options for your daughter, Madame Rougeaux. She can marry, and the relieving of her husband will do the trick, receive consistent treatments that include area-specific massages, or... well, the other option is complicated and will take some time. I need to conduct and review further research. To do that I must go to Paris. Their university library is unmatched, and then perhaps I will be able to find temporary, or even a final, cure for your daughter."

My eyes are hard as they settle on his cool and collected expression. Dear God, is it not enough that my future and my family relies on the perfect marriage, but now my health does too? I can only imagine the flurry of thoughts raging a war in Maman's mind. Squeezing my hand again, Maman turns to face me. The look we exchange can't be more different than the expressions on each of our faces. Because, truth be told, I'm not sure how I feel about all of this. I want to go home, to Paris. That's all I want. Too long have I been away from home, from everything that is familiar to me, from the companionship I seem to have lost along the way on this trip.

Maman turns back to the collected physician. "Dr. Lavelle, I would like to offer you a position as Apolline's personal physician who will return to Paris with us to research a cure for her... ailment. In the meantime, we will be finding her a husband." She stands from her seat, hands clasped together and her eyes deep set into her supple face. "Under no circumstances should you discuss my daughter's condition to anyone without my approval."

My mouth had slowly dropped open during her proposition.

Dr. Lavelle considers it, and then stands with a nod. "It would be my honor, Madame Rougeaux."

Maman's urgency makes my heart race. But at the same time, a wave of excited relief washes over me.

I'm going home to Paris.

* * *

 **Thank you for reading! Again, if you enjoyed this please favorite, follow, and review. They make the writing process quicker and more enjoyable.**


	3. Chapter 2

**I'm trying to get as much of the rewrites as I can so that I can move forward in the story. I will say, I am having fun with the research portion of this fanfiction. Enoy!**

* * *

I'm practically bouncing in my seat as our covered carriage strolls through the gates of Paris. Doe-eyed and restless, I tap my fingers against the fabric of my traveling gown. I crane my neck to peer out the small window. My thoughts race to all of the possibilities and news that await me as soon as I arrive home and reunite with old peers and neighbors and friends.

As soon as it was decided that we were returning to Paris within the week, I rushed to my bedroom and pulled out my stationary and pen. I had to rewrite my letters several times, my handwriting rushed to the point of illegibility. When I took my time with the final copies, I was beaming. My smile had never been wider as I finished the letters, folding and stamping them individually with wax seals. I almost tripped on the way back downstairs to hand them to Gaston, Grandmother's butler, to mail the letter, addressed adoringly to my good friends.

I almost sigh reminiscing back to days gone by. Sketching humorous portraits of each other with Giselle and Coralie, going out with coins and bonbons snuck into our pockets to give to the impoverished children in the arrondissement over. Reading favorite enlightenment thinkers with Julien, and reciting their words from memory over countless cups of tea, taking piano breaks to soothe our heated debates.

"When do you think we can see Madame Helene?" I ask, impatient giddiness rolling through every word.

Maman rubs her temple. "Not for another day or so, Apolline. We've only just arrived in Paris. Don't you want a day to recover before reentering society again? Please, settle down, you're far too excited. You'll end up in a fit again."

I force myself to sit still, but it isn't Maman that has me calming my jitters, it is what I see outside.

We have turned down a street to take a shortcut around the center of the Right Bank through the backstreets. Paris is undoubtedly crowded this time of year. We'd be lucky to make it home within the hour if we went through the heart of Paris. But I didn't expect to see this. The interesting thing about Paris is that you can be in a wealthy, clean district one second, and then turn down another street and suddenly you are in the destitute neighborhoods.

I wonder if Maman has looked out the window yet. I study her face across from me; she obviously hasn't, there isn't her usual sneer she forms when she's displeased.

My brow furrows as I observe the world just outside my carriage window. My luminous childhood in my head glimmers like the Seine on a hot summer's day, but rain seems to have down-poured on these crowded and dreary streets. I chew on my lips as long, grime-covered faces glare up at me.

Some of the homes, crooked and close to toppling, are missing windows, and my heart sinks as I think about how they last through the long, bitter winters.

This isn't the Paris I remember; or maybe it's always been like this and I never knew how bad it was on a larger scale. My cheeks burn and I mutter under my breath to calm the sudden rush of blood to my face.

I don't notice Dr. Lavelle leaning towards me, trying to listen to me, until he asks: "What's that, Mademoiselle Rougeaux?"

My head snaps away from the window as though I had never lost my usual cheer. " _'Brutes are deprived of the high advantages which we have; but they have some which have not. They have not our hopes, but they are without our fears; they are subject like us to death, but without knowing it; even most of them are more attentive than we to self-preservation, and do not make so bad a use of their passions._ '"

Maman huffs while Dr. Lavelle blinks.

I flash an innocent smile. "Baron de Montesquieu."

Dr. Lavelle's throat bobs in discomfort. I flutter my eyelashes. "He's my favorite to read during winter nights by candlelight. His ideas even make the shadows come alive to listen."

The physician's stare feels more like he's studying me, and before it can make me uncomfortable I turn away to ignore him.

"I'm not fond of his usage of the word 'brutes', but I think there is great merit to his words."

Maman sniffs, rubbing her nose with a gloved finger, trying to interrupt anything I could say further. But I continue. "Those of us who are more privileged than others have so much more to lose, while those who are disadvantaged have little left lose. Death is inevitable, but it is far more commonplace and... real to them, so much so that they forget that no matter your advantages we are all equal in our mortal fates. It is because of this that their self-preservation is more attentive than ours. We have the advantage of roofs over our heads, fine clothes, plentiful amounts of food and water, and access to a doctor. I can't imagine how many loved ones they lose. Their will and desire to live and hope for relief is-"

"Apolline, _mon cher_!" Maman snaps at me. "I'm certain the good doctor has no interest in your silly philosophers. Your Papa, I swear that man-"

"Do you think Papa will allow me to sit in on his classes again now that I'm home?" I chime in.

Dr. Lavelle snorts and chuckles. "I certainly hope not! There is no place for a woman in a classroom."

I raise my chin, challenging his remark with a cunning smile. "Papa will disagree with you, Dr. Lavelle. He reveres the works of the Marquis de Condorcet-"

" _Mon Dieu_! What is all this commotion for?!" Maman shrieks, leaning towards the opposite window from mine.

I press my nose to the glass. Citizens rush around our carriage towards a Square where a crowd has gathered. We have scurried through the backstreets already and have rounded into an open boulevard, a circular park lined with green flush trees and carriages standing still, horses to footmen. Citizens squeezing past them towards the Square open between two lawyers' firms.

"Nothing but silly schoolboys trying to rally the masses by spewing their treasonous ideologies," Dr. Lavelle drones on. "These democratic philosophies discredit the honorable lineages that have grown to be figureheads toward a prosperous future. Authors such as Montesquieu uproot the very foundations of this country..."

I'm certain my eyes can't roll farther back into my head. "And what honorable lineage do you come from, Dr. Lavelle?"

His face pales. I try to hold back a snicker as he turns away to face the opposite window with Maman.

"We'd get home faster if we just walk at this rate!" Maman rests back against her carriage seat, her thin lips pulled back into a humorous, yet unimpressed, smile.

My ears perk at the suggestion. "Why don't we?"

Maman's eyes look like they're about to pop out of her head. "Apolline, I was only joking. Going out into this? It's madness!"

"Oh, it's not too bad over here. It's just near the Square where it's crowded. And besides, with all of these carriages sitting, I'm certain we could take a stroll for an hour and come back to the carriage right where we left it," I say, peeking out the window.

"Apolline, the answer is no. I won't risk your health in this manner," Maman declares.

I start to gather my skirts in my fists, trying to wipe the dampness from them that formed at the mention of my health. Even though my insides feel constricted, I try to find the words to say to convince her I am otherwise fine. Finally I grip the handle to the carriage door. "Maman, please, I've been cooped up in this carriage for hours. If I don't get some fresh air I'm certain I'll come down with another fit."

Maman considers this, her lips pursing, her mind pondering if what I said was truth or a threat. In a frantic moment she waves her hand. "No more than thirty minutes, _mon cher_! I expect you back here then."

I lean over and plant a kiss on her cheek before opening the carriage door. " _Merci_ , Maman. Thirty minutes on the dot."

I hop out of the carriage, leveling my bonnet on my head. The mid-July heat floods over my body like an invisible wave, and the sunshine stings my already sun-kissed fawn-hued skin when I look up at the radiant sky over the city I had called home for so long.

There's something about the air in Paris. Pungent is a term to describe it, but in the most interesting ways. Both fresh and musky, sweet and sour. It savors and repels in the nostrils, the mixture of classes in a single space, something only Parisians are accustomed to. I straighten my brocade shawl, letting it hang around my elbows, and before I think about it for too long, I head towards the Square the crowd is flowing to.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Rougeaux!" Dr. Lavelle calls after me.

I stop to wait for him to catch up to me, knowing that Maman had sent him after me to take on the role of my chaperone for this unplanned excursion.

He snakes through people while I attempt to stand on my toes to catch a glimpse of the spectacle drawing the eager audience, but I can barely see a thing over the tall gentlemen and their hats.

"Mademoiselle, I must insist we go another direction. A rally of this sort isn't appropriate," the physician urges me, grabbing my elbow to turn me away.

I yank myself free, furrowing my brows. "Please don't grab me like that." He snorts and chuckles, and my hands clench into fists so tight that my fingernails sting my palms. "I'm just curious. It can't be so bad."

The moment he rolls his eyes is the moment I squeeze between two gentlemen in front of us, hiding from the warped sight of his glasses.

I chuckle as soon as I hear the dumbfounded, "Mademoiselle?" over the chatter of people.

Maneuvering through the sea of Parisians, I am able to hear snippets of an impassioned speech. I stumble between the gaps of coats and shawls I can find to try to make it to a spot where I can either see or hear the leaders of the rally.

A burly gentleman steps blindly aside, trapping my toes under his shoe.

"Ow!" Pain hurdles over my toes laced tightly into my wool traveling slippers. I yank it free, stumbling backward into a lean, cloth-padded mass.

They grunt at the sudden impact, but they still manage to catch me before I take us both down to the ground.

"Pardon, Monsieur!" I gasp, trying to straighten my bonnet. I had felt the large accessory whack him in the face, and the embarrassment fills my chest.

"Don't worry, Mademoiselle!" The body attached to the brash yet bright voice steadies me back on my feet. "I've grown accustomed to women falling for me so suddenly."

I press my lips together to suppress my laugh at his meek and endearing attempt to be humorous. Our arms grasp the other's to balance ourselves, bringing us face to face. The moment our eyes meet, we take in the others face; the young man's demeanor is not too far off from the style of his flirtatious humor, and his face small and mousy with coffee brown curls falling dangerously low to just above his thick eyelashes. It's then that we erupt into a fit of giggles and laughs.

"Forgive me," the young man manages to say through laughs. He wipes away moistness forming in the corner of his beady brown eyes. "Sometimes I can't resist making a joke around lovely mademoiselles."

I storm into another fit of giggles. "There is nothing better than a joke, so please, any humor is appreciated. Thank you for catching me, Monsieur-"

"Courfeyrac!" He pipes in.

I am filled with the warmth of seeing a friendly face, youthful and around my age, something I feel I have been deprived of. My heart feels so full that I don't hold back from stretching my hand out to him, straight and pointed like a gentleman's. Monsieur Courfeyrac notices the position of my hand as he lifts his own, and, with a sound smile, he grasps mine and shakes it. I can feel the cordiality of his hand through my lace gloves.

"It's not a problem at all! I would have expected it, it's packed in this Square," he mentions.

"I was hoping to listen a little more, or even watch, but it's difficult to get through all of these people," I explain. I attempt to stand on my toes, but my restricting height and the pain in my foot cause me to stumble.

"Ah! I know where we can go!" Monsieur Courfeyrac exclaims. I just barely catch his sleeve and link my arm through his before he winds through the crowd, whisking me along with him.

Looking back for only a second before I am engulfed by the crowd, I catch a glimpse of Dr. Lavelle pushing his way between two gentlemen with his glasses askew on his face.

Monsieur Courfeyrac seems to be an expert in finding his way through masses without much trouble. He guides me beside him to a fountain, so close that the speech being given can be heard over the rushing of the water. He lunges up onto the foot-tall step of the fountain, and turns to me with his hands held out. Gripping them, he lifts me up onto the step with him.

"There you go, Mademoiselle." He points across the fountain toward a group of students, all around his age, standing on makeshift stages of crates. I sweep the toffee curls that have gathered around the back of my neck to one shoulder to give my skin some air as my eyes land where his finger is pointing.

My eyes are instantly drawn to the leader, the main speaker, of the rally. He is turned away from me, but I can tell through his focused and rigid movements that he means every word he says that is conveyed through his powerful tenor voice. It rings with the certainty that every word had been chosen and researched with ultimate precision.

My heart glows and races with proud respect for him. My mind urges him to turn this way. His booming voice and messy mop of golden curls stir a feeling of warm recognition in me. His burgundy coat ingrains itself into my mind. Looking around at the onlookers, they seem to know him, as though this isn't the first time they have attended a rally where he is a main presence. I'm not surprised; having experienced him now, I feel as though I will never forget him. If I could only see his face though.

The other gentlemen add to the speech, their spirit matching their leader's.

A deep sigh enters the atmosphere beside me. "I run in late because of a class but going by the size of this crowd, it's obvious they don't need me."

I turn to him. "Are you with them? Part of their rallying group, I mean?"

Monsieur Courfeyrac beams with a nod. "They're all the greatest friends one could ask for. All extraordinary thinkers and activists for the people. I'm honored to be one of them." The warmth of his words reflect in his smile, so infectious I can't help but reciprocate it.

"You all go to the University, _non_? I have an old friend there now. This seems exactly like something he would want to be a part of. I wonder if you know him," I say, my voice raising to try to be heard over the growing shouting of the rally.

"What is his name?" He asks, his own voice raising into a shout.

I don't get the chance to say when the crowd picks up a chant, started by the young men on the podiums. Courfeyrac, now distracted, joins in, throwing his fist in the air.

A hand snatches my wrist, and I spin around while struggling to wrench it free. Dr. Lavelle stands at the base of the fountain looking less than enthused. His normally plain and blank face has twisted into a perplexed scowl.

"Mademoiselle!" He snaps, his tone barely audible above the roaring crowd. He yanks me down off the fountain with such force that I stumble. "I insist we return to the carriage!"

He turns and drags me through the sea of people. I look back towards the fountain and see Monsieur Courfeyrac spinning around and scanning the swarm. When he finally locates me, I display an unapologetic expression. The disappointment he shows wrenches my heart when I realize I never gave him my own name.

He finally disappears from sight after people begin to fill in the spaces cleared by Dr. Lavelle as he nudges his way back to the carriage.

As soon as the crowd begins to thin, I start to wrangle my wrist free from his clutch.

"Really, Dr. Lavelle, I'm quite alright!"

"I say, is wandering off something you do regularly? As your doctor, Mademoiselle, I must discourage you from doing such brash things in your current state as it may unsettle your delicate health and bring about another fit!"

My face heats and I have to bite my tongue from saying anything deliberately improper. Unwillingly, I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and my stomach sink low into my abdomen.

When we reach the line of carriages when they're just starting to budge. We climb back into the carriage where Maman sits and fans herself.

"Ah, there you both are! And perfect timing too. Was everything alright out there? I started to hear shouts and chants and became worried," Maman says.

I turn my head to look out the window to hide my pink face, certain Dr. Lavelle will tell her everything.

"Ah yes, just those schoolboy rallies. We stayed far from it, not to worry," Dr. Lavelle says.

My eyes shoot to him. He stares at me, the lines set sternly in his features, as an acknowledgment of his covering for me. He turns his head away to look out the other window.

I bite my lip and return my attention back to the rally in the Square as the carriage starts to roll through the streets of Paris again.

* * *

 **I hope you liked the little cameo ;) There will be another in the next one! Please follow, favorite, and review! Thanks!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Hello, my dears! Thank you so much for your patience as I go through rewrites. There's been a lot of back and forth between different chapters and fleshing everything out to be where I want them to be. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

The rest of the day after returning home to a townhouse full of the familiar faces of our housekeeper and servants we spend settling back in; or settling in officially in Dr. Lavelle's case. I delight in flopping onto my bed and stretching myself out over the soft duvet and feather pillows, feeling the relief of finally reconnecting with the rooms and sights of my childhood.

There is only one thing missing.

Papa.

The joy of finally being home is exuberant, but it still feels empty at the realization that the most important aspect of home is not there. I figure he is at his work at the university, and that I will see him later. I go about the rest of my day unpacking with my maid, Lilou, and keeping my wits sharp, waiting for the front door to open and for our porter's raspy voice to welcome him home.

"He's been staying out more as of late, Mademoiselle," Lilou says to me, gathering up the empty hat boxes. "We think it's because of how lonely he feels without you and the Madame home, that it finally hit him." There is comfort in her words. Papa does love his work and he is rather useless without me and Maman, or so he writes in his letters.

But as the hours pass and I suffer through dinner with just Maman and Dr. Lavelle, the fatigue of travel and the lonely disappointment seems to be the final thing that settles in that day.

The following morning as I step into the breakfast room, the head of the table is empty. Maman sits at the right of it, enjoying a breakfast of fruit, pastries, and tea. I chew the inside of my lips, perplexed at the sight, not quite what I had envisioned the first few days of my return to Paris would be like.

As I sit across from Maman, the housekeeper, Madame Mariette, comes to my side and pours hot tea into my teacup.

"Mariette, where is Papa? He didn't come home last night?" I inquire.

The portly woman doesn't look at me as she responds, she just simply goes about her tasks. "Non, Mademoiselle. Your Papa doesn't come home some nights. He has an apartment he also uses as an office near the Sorbonne. I suppose he was mistaken as to when you and the Madame were coming home and stayed there last night."

I stare at Madame Mariette. I didn't know about his apartment, he never told me of it in his letters. I suppose he thought it wasn't worth mentioning. It's just an office. He probably got it for some peace and quiet while he wrote his books and read.

I sip my tea. "I didn't know that. Is he working today, Mariette?"

"Oui, he has a few morning classes and will be home in the early afternoon, I suspect," Mariette replies as she goes to refresh Maman's tea.

I turn to Maman immediately, nearly spilling my tea all over my ivory nightgown. "Maman, might I go surprise Papa at the end of his classes at the university? I know he would love it!"

Maman hesitates, taking a small bite of a sliced strawberry as she studies me carefully. "I'm not so sure, Apolline."

"No, please, Maman! I promise I will go at the end of his classes so I don't interrupt them. Papa would be so happy, I'm sure of it!" I plead.

She sets down her fork on the porcelain plate, thinking. "Very well. You will connect with Mariette about the specifics of his schedule and plan accordingly. I don't want to hear anything about how you interrupted his classes. Dr. Lavelle will be escorting you."

I've hardly let out a moan when in that moment the very same Dr. Lavelle enters the breakfast room, cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief. Upon hearing his name he looks up to see everyone staring at him. "I beg your pardon?"

* * *

Nearly skipping through the corridors of the University of Paris, my joy excretes from my smile, wide and already making my cheeks ache.

Dr. Lavelle follows behind a few feet, not able to meet my energy, as he dabs his forehead every ten minutes with his handkerchief.

Following his reluctance to have me walk onto a university campus, and nearly shutting down the idea when Maman requested he join me, he relinquished his afternoon to escort me into the lively Latin Quarter and forced me to take his arm upon leaving the townhouse just a few hours after returning home.

"And make sure you return home with Papa by supper," Maman hastened to tell us as I tied the ribbons of my bonnet under my chin. "And if she seems to be too excited, take her home immediately, Dr. Lavelle. I don't want her to have a fit while she's out. Oh, I can only imagine the embarrassment." She said the last bit under her breath and I pretended to not hear her.

Not even a block into our trek to the University of Paris attached to his arm, I seem to be the one dragging Dr. Lavelle along.

"Mademoiselle, you are walking too quickly. I fear too much stimulation in this heat will not be beneficial to your condition!" He finally gives up and releases his tight grip on me after a few sparring and assuring words to let me walk ahead.

After a half-hour walk through La Rive Droite and over the Pont Saint-Michel to our final destination, the Parisian summer here does nothing to quell my excitement.

Frolicking past a few bachelors, their heads turning after me and nearly running into Dr. Lavelle who releases an annoyed snort and beg of pardon as the young men chuckle and move along. I turn the corner into a more shaded corridor of the Athenian-modeled building. The marble columns cast shadows over me and I am brought back to years past of running through the ancient buildings, waiting for the hour to pass as my nursemaid struggled to catch up to me.

The old oak door ahead of me opens into a closed gray hall, the air cooler and stiffer. Dr. Lavelle groans after me, struggling to catch up.

"Don't make too much of a fuss, Mademoiselle Rougeaux. Classes are still in session. We shall wait outside until-"

My slippers tapping against the stone floor drown him out as I approach the first door on the left. A hiss echoes after me, but I continue to grab the doorknob and crack the door open.

A soothing voice floods my ears, strong and confident, as it relays familiar information and calms my exhilarated heart. My eyes flicker to the scene through the crack in the door. Young men seated in the tiered lecture hall, cravats lazily tied, and books open on the long crescent tables before them. Some of them were sleeping in the back, others took rapid notes, not taking their eyes from the speaker in the front of the room. Ink, parchment, perfume, and sweat flood my nostrils and I push the door open a crack more to gain a better view of the speaker.

"… In conclusion, we know that Voltaire was against democracy. He saw it as a way to propagate the masses of idiocy. Such talk only fueled it. To Voltaire, an enlightened monarchy was the answer to change and betterment."

The older gentleman leans against the desk in front of the class, in one hand an open book, the other slid into his cream linen waistcoat. His silvery hair, well-trimmed and combed, grows into a dove white beard, striped with the light brown color of fading youth. Stern steel eyes survey the crowd as he speaks, yet I know behind such coldness is a soft warmth reserved for only a few.

A hand bolts into the air from the opposite side of the room, and the gentleman acknowledges the bachelor with a nod.

"Professor, while I understand what Voltaire is trying to say," the young man begins, his voice soft-spoken yet his tone unyielding and inquisitive, "does he not contradict himself? He says that the bourgeoisie are too small and ineffective, the aristocracy too parasitic and corrupt, the commoners too ignorant and superstitious, and the church a counterbalance against the monarchy due to their taxes. But are these not the powerbase of a monarchy? This class system is what keeps the monarchy alive. Would not a true enlightened monarchy see this class system as a detriment to the overall idea of change and betterment based on his observations of them? How can change and betterment be brought about if there remains a class system that continues to empower the rich and oppress the poor, average man? An enlightened monarchy would know that the progress of civilization starts with the equality of man, the empowerment of all; such as a democracy would provide. Would that not be better suited towards his ideas of humanistic virtue and conventional morality?"

I listen to every word, his gentle speech floating across the room and barely making it to my ears. Dr. Lavelle snorts behind me, having heard the young man's response as well. I return my gaze to the professor who took in the rebuttal carefully.

"I understand your point, Monsieur. However, I think Voltaire insisted that an enlightened monarchy would erase corruption from the class system and the monarchy itself through constitutional justice and stability, such as the one we have here through our elections of appointed officials. As such, the class systems would be, ideally, treated more equally by way of constitutional rule. At least that would appear to be his theory. The theory is still being tested mind you, it's only been two years," he replies.

"Elections that do not benefit the poor in any way. How can a constitutional monarchy work with elections if all are not represented?" The young man rebuttals.

The professor smirks, fully understanding how ludicrous and contradictory it all seems. I can't help but smile as well, knowing how much he loves his students for forward-thinking and challenging ideas in civilized discussion. " _Oui_ , you may have a point, but I think further reading on Voltaire's ideas would be beneficial to you. Your ideas and arguments are ahead of the times, I think. The elections have not even been established for a full year yet. Allow representation to grow, allow things to take the time it needs to provide the change you are looking for. So, for further reading, class, I suggest-"

He seems to catch something out of the corner of his eye because he stumbles over his next few words and pauses as he turns his head towards the door of his classroom. Having been found out, I open the door fully, staying in the doorway to the lecture hall. The professor stares at me. The class of young bachelors turn their heads in unison to see what has stopped their steely mentor from his ending lecture of readings and papers. But I only see him, my smile as wide as it could be.

He chuckles, dropping his book onto the desk behind him and marches cross the distance between us. Lifting me into his arms, he spins me round, our laughs echoing through the classroom. His students watch on, confusion and shock pouring into the room.

"Papa!" I squeal through my giggles. Five years is far too long for a girl to not see her father. Because of his schedule teaching, popularity in policy meetings, and his delicate respiratory health, Papa couldn't come to visit during the five years. He did once within the first year; he met us in Vienna, but he didn't stay long due to the high latitude affecting his lungs. Letters and gifts were all that was exchanged between us. But, oh, I missed his hugs.

"Apolline, _mon cher_ , how are you?" Papa sets me down and takes my hands in his. Before he gives me a chance to reply, he turns back to his class. "You are all dismissed. Move on to Robespierre for next week's lecture."

Papa removes himself to gather his things from the desk as his students scrape the legs of the benches against the wood flooring. The first few young men closest to the door stroll past me, giving me respectful nods. Papa returns and leads me out of the lecture hall. He stops beside the door to allow more students to pass, but ultimately to address Dr. Lavelle standing there, arms held curtly behind his back.

"You must be Dr. Lavelle." Papa's face sets back into the stone professor demeanor as he extends a hand.

Dr. Lavelle reciprocates the gesture and they exchange a brief, tense shake. "I am, Monsiuer Rougeaux."

"I suppose I must welcome you to Paris then, and to our home. I assume you have settled into our residence comfortably," Papa says.

"I have. Well, as comfortably as can expected thus far after having just arrived. I do apologize for the Mademoiselle's outburst. Causing trouble for others, I have read, is a common symptom-"

"Do not apologize for my daughter," Papa interrupts the doctor as he turns to me with a gracious smile. "I look forward to your presence in my classroom now that you are home, no matter what your Maman says."

Dr. Lavelle releases a snort and chuckle, then catches himself by the stern look his new employer flashes at him. His Adam's apple bobs in his throat, the fresh glean of sweat appearing on his brow again as though he has stepped outside again. "Hopefully, of course, if her health is stable enough for such stimulation. I have my theories, of course, about-"

A student exits the lecture hall and approaches Papa. " _Professeur_ , if I may have a moment."

"Ah, Monsieur, of course." Papa straightens upon seeing the young man. I recognize his soft-spoken, unyielding voice as the gentleman who questioned Voltaire's reasoning.

He stands tall at six feet, smartly dressed, with short loose waves of sandy blond hair, and a kind and intelligent face. He glances at me for a moment under his long nose before returning his attentions back to Papa.

"I believe you two would get along nicely. May I introduce my daughter, Apolline? She has just returned home from her tour of Europe. Apolline, this is one of my best pupils, Monsieur Gabriel Combeferre," Papa says.

The young man's small eyes widen, not expecting this moment to have been turned into an introduction with a young woman. Papa was never good at the manners of introduction. I bite back a laugh as a moment passes, and I decide to move first, dipping into a polite curtsy. Monsieur Combeferre realizes his situation and he bends forward into a bow, high enough for comfort, but low enough not to be rude in the presence of his professor.

"It is a pleasure, Monsieur," I say, flashing him an apologetic smile. "But, Papa, I do think he intended to ask a few questions regarding your lesson on Voltaire."

"Hm? Oh, yes, you're quite right, Apolline. Combeferre, you may visit me at my office at 15B on Rue Mignon sometime on Wednesday. I shall be there all day, I look forward to continuing our debate," Papa replies.

Monsieur Combeferre nods. " _Merci_ , _Professeur_. And, er, _au revoir_ , Mademoiselle."

He escapes out the nearest door to the courtyard.

"Shall we go to lunch then?" Papa offers his arm.

* * *

A café in the Faubourg Saint-Germain holds nothing finer than the most exquisite dining. Known for housing the nobility and aristocracy, their manor homes tower down the street. It is like black and white compared to Saint-Michel and the Latin Quarter several blocks down. Much like the rest of Paris, the poor integrate with the rich almost seamlessly. One second you are enjoying the space and sites of the boulevard, and the next you are traversing through narrow streets rampant with street urchins and collapsing homes and shops.

Papa sits me and Dr. Lavelle outside overlooking the refined boutiques where gentlemen stroll by in their tall hats, and ladies, arm-in-arm, glide along the sidewalks in their finest day clothes. The upper-class of the upper-class, blissfully unaware of the suffering that happens under their very noses just down the road from them.

I sip my diluted wine as a waiter brings out plates of seasoned beefsteaks, bread, and Brussel sprouts.

"After this I shall need to stop by my office to pick up a few things. It will only be a small diversion before the walk home," Papa said between bites of his food.

I dab my lips with my napkin. "Your small apartment? Madame Mariette told me about it," I inquired.

Papa's eyes flicker up to me as he sips his black coffee. " _Oui_ , I purchased a small apartment which serves as an office and separate living space when I need a change of scenery."

My brow furrows. "You won't spend too many days there will you?"

" _Non_ , _mon cher_ , now that you are home I will mostly just use it for my office hours with students and an extra study space. It is a quiet area, and it provides a sense of peace for reading and writing."

I smile, relieving a breath from my chest. "Good. I want to spend as much time as I can with you now that I have returned. I missed you so much, Papa."

He reaches out and places a large, warm hand on my arm. "I missed you too, _mon scintillement_. I have readings for you when we get home. I should like some discussions and debates with you as soon as you finish reading them."

I bounce in my seat, a smile plastered on my face. "I shall devour them! Maman only let me read light fiction during our trip. I became so bored of it after a while that I started ordering my own Latin language books."

Dr. Lavelle clears his throat, clearing his way into the conversation. "Monsieur Rougeaux, if I may-"

" _Professeur_ ," Papa intercedes before taking a bite of his beefsteak.

"Er, I beg your pardon?"

"Address me as _Professeur_ Rougeaux," Papa clarifies.

Dr. Lavelle pales under the shade of the canopy overhead. "Er, _oui_ , _Professeur_. If I may-"

"You may," Papa intercedes again, unamused.

Dr. Lavelle clears his throat once more, the lines in his straight face deepening. "In my studies of your daughter's… affliction," he keeps his voice low enough so that only we can hear him, "I have read that too much mental stimulation could be a viable cause to her malady. The fairer sex is not meant to be intellectually stimulated to the extent of a man, therefore it causes them to break out into a series of fits, or exhibit irritable behaviors. For the time being, I would suggest that she refrain from such rigorous reading of heavy subjects reserved for men so as to better keep these fits at bay."

"Dr. Lavelle, are you familiar with the work of the Marquis de Condorcet?" Papa asks after taking a sip of his wine.

"Er, _non_ , _Professeur_ ," Dr. Lavelle stutters out.

"Hm, well, if you did then you would know my stance on the education of women. I have had a heavy say in my daughter's education, teaching her many things myself, and not once has she ever reacted negatively to the stimulation of deeper thinking. In fact, I should say, she is better minded than most women her age, and even some older than her. If your theories about the cause of her affliction are true, then I am also at liberty as an intellectual to say that they are wrong in her case. She has been, as you say, intellectually stimulated since she was very young. Given that her affliction started several years ago it can be concluded through proper reasoning that the stimulation has no direct correlation with her illness," Papa says, holding Dr. Lavelle's gaze hostage, and not blinking once.

Dr. Lavelle couldn't reply. "Er, very well, Professeur Rougeaux."

Papa signals the waiter to bring over the dessert. Turning back to his coffee, he continues, "I shall continue educating my daughter as I see fit. If I notice that something is amiss as I do so and it seems to worsen her condition I shall seek your advice. But in the meantime, I suggest you continue your studies and supervision of Apolline to find a more sensical cause."

"Oui, _Professeur_ ," Dr. Lavelle relents immediately.

A dessert of fruit and raspberry ice is planted on our table and coffee is refilled as our lunch plates are removed. I relish in the sweet taste of the dessert as I gaze up at the azure sky. My attention is caught suddenly by two high-pitched squeals. Two children, a boy and a girl, probably siblings of the working middle class, prance through the street, keeping away from the carriages while giggling at their little game of chase.

I turn to Papa. "Papa, have you heard from Julien lately?"

"Hm? Have you not been writing to each other during your travels?"

I shift in my seat. "Well, yes, as often as I could. I'd say I sent a letter about every other week, or when something exciting happened, or it had been a while since his last letter arrived." I giggle to myself. "He must have a novel of my letters by now. But as the years went his letters became sparser. I understand he started school and he's busy with his studies, and he is, well, Julien, but I was hoping to have heard from him by now. At least since I sent my last letter informing him when I would be returning home, I half expected a letter in return saying something."

"I've heard you speak about this young man before, yet I still have yet to learn more about him," Dr. Lavelle interjects as he stiffly gathers the melting raspberry ice onto his spoon.

"We grew up together. He's three years older than me, but we spent our childhoods next door to each other. I don't believe we ever had closer friends. I could be wrong now, of course. Five years is a long time to be apart, even when we were grown when we parted; him focusing on exams and studies, and me focusing on my debut. A lot could have changed during that time," I explain.

"He sounds like he was a suitor of yours then?" Dr. Lavelle inquires, his voice suspicious.

"What? Oh no, Julien never had time for such things. He found them to be 'utterly ridiculous'." I roll my eyes as I attempt the exasperation Julien had so many times exhibited as he grew older and was suggested such notions by his mother.

"Hm, well, I am sorry that Julien has been negligent in his interactions with you. Certainly now that you are home, your Maman will invite Madame Helene and Julien over for tea, and you can have the opportunity to reacquaint yourselves with each other," Papa relays. I brighten at the possibility, knowing Maman would want to arrange that as soon as possible. "I have him in one of my classes, you know, my other Enlightenment Thinking section."

My eyes widen. "You do? Why didn't you tell me?"

Papa shrugs. "I assumed you were writing each other more and he would have told you."

My hands clutch the white and sky-blue striped cotton of my dress, and I urge Papa to continue.

With a sigh he takes another sip of his coffee. "He is Julien, I suppose. A brash, passionate thinker and debater as always. Probably more so now than he ever was. It seems his exposure to higher thinking in the university has only made him more devoted and stalwart to his ideas and acting upon them. He stirs quite the debate in my classroom for sure, and has garnered his own little following."

My grin stretches across my face until I can feel my cheeks grow warm from the ache and my throat releases a chuckle. "It sounds like he hasn't changed a bit. I'm hoping when we reconnect it will be like when we were younger. With some propriety of course."

Papa extends a warm smile. "I hope so too, _mon scintillement_."

* * *

 **Sorbonne - The nickname for the University of Paris.**

 **La Rive Droite - This is most commonly associated with the Seine in the center of Paris.**

 **Pont Saint-Michel - The bridge that crosses the left river bank of the Seine to Il de la Cite.**

 **Mon scintillement - my sparkle**

 **Just a little fun French geography and trivia for ya ;) Thank you for reading! I should hopefully have the next one up soon. Please remember to REVIEW, FOLLOW, and FAVORITE if you would like to be notified for more updates. I do try to respond to all of the comments I receive. I am always very thankful for them. Au revoir!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Good day! I hope you enjoy this little chapter with a little surprise at the end ^_^**

* * *

On the Rue Mignon we approach a white sandstone building only three stories high; a modest building with wings on the bottom floor to make up for the kitchens and a small accounting establishment. We enter through the courtyard around the back to the stairs that leads to the third floor and a locked door. With his key, Papa allows us to enter his office apartment.

A two bedroom abode, the sitting room consists of a couch and an armchair, two ceiling-high bookcases neatly organized with its vast selection of books, a small round table with two chairs, and a small kitchen with a fireplace. On the other side of the curtained French doors is the bedroom where an armoire, a writing desk, and a bed table are neatly kept. The bed sits in the left corner beside the window overlooking the courtyard.

Small and comfortable and befitting of my modest Papa. It almost makes me want to have the opportunity to come here whenever I want. Papa was right. It is very serene, nearly no street noise echoing into the room from the open windows to keep the space cool.

Papa gathers a few of his books from the table in the kitchen and steps beside me looking out of the bedroom window.

"This is probably the best thing I have invested in for quite some time," Papa admits.

"It's perfect. I am almost jealous," I say.

Papa pats my shoulder. "You may come here as often as you wish with the proper." I beam at him, and he leans in to whisper in my ear, "Or alone if you wish as well. If you can get the stiff off your back for more than a second." He glances back at Dr. Lavelle who stands as straight as a pencil by the front door, looking increasingly more uncomfortable with every passing minute. We snicker to ourselves before turning and heading back towards the entrance.

"May I request we take a fiacre back?" Dr. Lavelle requests, dabbing his forehead with his handkerchief again as Papa locks up the apartment. "The heat is a bit much to bear, and I don't want to strain the Mademoiselle."

I tug on Papa's arm, my brow furrowed. "Please, Papa, I'm perfectly fine. It's not bothering me at all. I would much rather walk and get the exercise. I feel so refreshed afterwards."

Papa looked between me and Dr. Lavelle before finally taking my arm. "It's not too far of a walk, Dr. Lavelle. You made it here alright, walking the distance back won't kill you."

Dr. Lavelle stifles a groan in protest. Papa leads me down the stairs back to the street, Dr. Lavelle following behind and dabbing his forehead continuously. It's not long before we reach the Pont Saint-Michel and cross onto Il de la Cite where the Cathedrale Notre Dame towers over the entire river island and inspects the wide realm of Paris with its condemning rosary window eye. After crossing the Pont du Change back onto the Rive Droite we make our down the street along the bank, enjoying the view of the sparkling Seine. All the while, Dr. Lavelle sighs and huffs behind Papa and I, clearly not taking the weather well.

Mid-afternoon in Paris is always a little livelier, no matter which bank you are on. But today there seems be a growing interest on the Rive Droite as we make our way home. Approaching the Tuileries Gardens, a building crowd gathers. Chants and angry, impassioned words echo off the wall of the surrounding buildings and over the hedges.

"Papa, is this another rally?" I inquire, tugging on his coat sleeve.

"It appears to be," he confirms. "Have you seen on before?"

I nod. "Yesterday, while we were riding through on our way home. I wonder if they are the same group of boys from yesterday." I search the crowd for an opening to see if I can catch a glimpse of them, and perhaps Monsieur Courfeyrac or the familiar burgundy coat and mess of golden curls of the enthralling speaker I had witnessed. Though, I'm unsure if I would recognize him today if he isn't speaking, I didn't even see his face yesterday. "Papa, may we get closer to have a better look and listen. I won't get too close and will be careful."

Dr. Lavelle finally steps forward, a vein in his head popping. "Professeur, I must protest about this. This is no place for a young lady, let alone one of your daughter's health. I insist we continue on home."

Papa hardens his stare on Dr. Lavelle. "I think it should be perfectly safe as long as we do not veer too much into the crowd. I will escort her myself to ensure nothing happens to her if you are so _worried_ , Dr. Lavelle."

I can tell the doctor was holding back a snort and chuckle, but thought better on following through with it.

I clutch Papa's arm as he leads me closer towards the rally. The voices grow in strength and vigor. We stay a safe distance away from the heart of the protest, but still close enough to hear them and experience the excitement. After the initial cries of the crowd die down, the voices of the protest group ring in the air.

"Their only promise is a new king on the throne, of royal descent or not! The elections that were promised to us were a ruse, only to benefit those who can pay enough to have a voice in their government! They vote to put people in power who will keep them rich, and those who suffer, even poorer!"

I recognize the voice that holds its audience captive with its commanding tone and unmistakable articulation. The onlookers love him and his straightforward, empathetic words. The restless devour his contagious energy, hungry for justice and liberty. It is indeed the same speaker as from the day before.

I yearn to see this young man whom the less fortunate adore. Standing on my toes, I am able to get a view of the rally presenters. All young men, still within their twenties, I spot a few faces from the rally yesterday. I wonder how often they hold these.

My eyes searching the party of young men, they land on Monsieur Courfeyrac. My lips pull into a wide smile and I tug once more on Papa's coat sleeve. He leans down to hear me as I speak as loudly as I can over the cries and speeches.

"I know that gentleman! The one with the brown hair, there! I met him yesterday!" I point my gaze at Monsieur Courfeyrac so Papa can see him.

"I'm afraid I know most of these boys from my classes!" Papa replies, his tone unreadable due to the noise.

"Truly?!" I suppose it doesn't surprise me; they are all the right age and considering their stances politically and philosophically, it does seem likely that they would have taken a class with Papa.

I listen further until I see pamphlets being passed around from person to person. I reach out and snatch one as a stack finds its way in front of me.

I can barely read a word of the title before shouts of alarm ring out.

"Enjolras, look!"

My head snaps up at the shout, and my eyes dart around, searching the crowd.

Officers of the Garde Municipale begin filing in between the citizens, suppressing their cries and proclamations.

Papa pulls at my arm again. "Come, _mon scintillement_. I fear this situation has escalated into being too much for you."

But I don't budge. I just need to see.

In the thick of the crowd, the Municipale flog escaping citizens with the butts of their muskets and hilts of their swords, pushing them back with abrupt and uncaring forces of strength. A mélange of frightened cries, pained grunts, and seething shouts create a terrifying symphony against the peaceful backdrop of green lawns and patches of tulips.

My eyes seem to go cross-eyed as the muted colors of worn rags and coats blend with the loyal shades of blue uniforms.

A flash of vibrant red catches my eye as it moves through the mass of scattering people. With thick flaxen curls, the figure appears, coming into view with a burst of stalwart movement.

I know five years did much to my physique and facial features, but I do know that I am still recognizable. The same can be said in this instance. Despite a more sturdy build than when I had last seen him, he is still the same young man I had left those years ago. There is only so much I can notice with the throng of rushing French men and women between us.

"Julien!" I call out.

He turns his head, as if he heard someone calling his name, but my I know my voice was drowned out by the roar of the crowd and I am guided away from the swarm.

The air is clearer as the mass of paupers, workers, and officers thins into the main roads of the city. Dr. Lavelle waits on the sidewalk for us to arrive to him, his expression clearly not amused going by the hard set lines in his features. But I can't focus on his expected rant about how he was right. My mind keeps fluttering back to Julien, stuck in the crowd just a short distance away from me.

I glance down at my hand still holding the pamphlet that had been passed around, professionally done, and clearly mass printed.

 _The Rights and Liberties of the French penned by Anonymous_.

I feel the corners of my lips curl up into a curious smile.

"Just as I expected," Dr. Lavelle says as we approach the sidewalk where he stands. "The Municipale were right to show up as they did. There is nothing but trouble to be had when reckless school boys gather together to cause a fuss. I'm surprised you didn't have another fit, Mademoiselle-"

"Dr. Lavelle, we will going home now if you would care to stop your prattling," Papa interjects as he straightens his jacket lapels.

I feel like in any other moment, I would laugh at the color draining from Dr. Lavelle's face and his pronounced Adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows Papa's words, but I only stare at the depleting horde in front of the gardens, hoping to catch a glimpse of a red coat or golden curls moving through the remaining stragglers. But no such signs appear. Not even any of the other school boys who seem to be associated with the group.

The disappointment settles in my chest as Papa leads me away towards home.

* * *

 **Garde Municipale - infantry and battalions that suppressed riots during the July Monarchy**

 **Mélange - mixture**

 **Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 5

**Hello! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please read the content warning.**

 **CW: medical and self-induced masturbation. Hysteria was a condition that was believed to be treated by inducing hysterical paroxysm, which was technically an orgasm which they didn't believe women could actually experience like men did.**

* * *

I didn't imagine I would be lying in bed in nothing by my shift and pantalettes with my knees to the air so soon after arriving home. I am reminded of what happened in Lyon the last time Dr. Lavelle attempted to treat me while providing a diagnosis, and how quickly I had reacted to a single touch, and how my body convulsed at the continued stress. I gulp as he enters my bedroom where Maman and Papa are seated in chairs beside my bed. I can only hope the treatment he recommended as soon as we returned home from the unplanned excursion in the gardens would be less invasive.

"So Dr. Lavelle," Maman says after gulping herself, "you recommended a specific treatment as soon as possible. What would this treatment entail?"

Dr. Lavelle takes a calculated step forward towards the bed. "Yes, it is one of the most common treatments for hysteria. It can be... shocking to hear without understanding the reasoning behind it so I will provide an explanation."

I knit my brows together, puzzled, and slightly scared, at what he going to speak about.

He clears his throat. "The treatment is simply a pelvic massage while stimulating, er, specific points of your lower abdomen. If you remember from your last fit in Lyon, I explained that the cause of hysteria is an excess of fluids in that location. The pelvic massage will help release these fluids, providing a temporary relief from hysteria."

I listen to every word, as do Maman and Papa. Papa looks increasingly uncomfortable the more Dr. Lavelle says. I can understand why. It sounds… invasive. Very much like the treatment he tried that day in Lyon.

"That day in Lyon, was that the treatment you administered to me?" I ask.

"It was a version of it. That was without the stimulation of specific points, but it was a form of the pelvic massage," Dr. Lavelle replies. He removes his glasses and cleans them. "I understand it is a rather controversial treatment, but it is one of the few treatments physicians have found to consistently work for hysteria patients. Which is why we tend to ask permission before administering the treatment. If you refuse… well, I'm afraid you may have to be without a treatment for a while I search for a suitable alternative."

I turn my gaze to Maman and Papa, searching for an answer. I am torn; on one hand, I want a treatment as quickly as possible; on the other hand, I'm unsure how I feel about allowing Dr. Lavelle to administer such a treatment to me when it's clearly intrusive to my body.

Papa says nothing, his jaw hard as if he's clenching it to hold his tongue from saying something he shouldn't. Maman's lips quiver, seeming to be conflicted over the same things I am. But I know she's at her wit's end. Until a husband can be found, ensuring a healthy daughter sometimes requires the unthinkable to be done. I can tell she's already made up her mind on what she wants to do, she's just waiting for me. Finally, I give a hesitant nod.

"Dr. Lavelle," Maman stands from the edge of the bed, "I would not feel comfortable if it came from anybody else but you. I trust your professional skills."

The doctor shows a small gracious smile and bows his head. "I am honored, Madame Rougeaux. In these next few days I shall monitor your daughter closely to take note of any side effects and differences following the procedure. This way I will be able to determine if the best schedule for the treatment is on a regular basis or as needed."

"Understood. Shall we start with the procedure?" Maman replied.

At this, Papa stands, giving my hand a kiss and patting it as he sets it back down on the bed. "I will take my leave. I do request, however," Papa glares down Dr. Lavelle, making the doctor stop from approaching my bedside, "that a female attendant be with my daughter at all times. Whether it be her mother, or her maid. I suggest taking the time to train and inform her so she may be of use to you during those times."

A muscle in Dr. Lavelle's cheek twitches. He bows his head. "I understand your concern and appreciate your protectiveness for you daughter, Professeur. However, this is a procedure that not many women are comfortable even witnessing due to their delicate sensibilities."

"Then I suggest you hire someone who is comfortable. I will not have my daughter alone with you treating her so," Papa says, a warning in his tone.

Dr. Lavelle glares back at Papa with equal intensity. "I shall look into the resources and possibilities available to me to see what can be done. I will be certain to inform you what is decided upon. In the meantime, I believe the Madame would be sufficient to standby. But do tell me, Madame Rougeaux, if you begin to feel uncomfortable and I will speed up my search."

"Absolutely, Dr. Lavelle. I will be transparent though, this is a rather sensitive subject and I will have questions, but I will do my best to be there for my daughter as needed. Another attendant, however, would be comforting so I will agree with my husband on such a matter. This is Apolline's reputation at stake. Such interactions are unthinkable in society so I will want to monitor what is done for each treatment session."

"Of course, Madame." Dr. Lavelle bows to her. Papa continues to glare at him until he leaves through the bedroom door.

Maman seats herself at the boudoir across from the bed. I take a deep breath and raise my knees to the canopy ceiling. My throat is tight and I gulp to try to relieve it.

"Now, Mademoiselle, I must ask you to remain calm during the treatment. It may feel uncomfortable for the first few sessions, but you will get used to it," Dr. Lavelle explains.

I nod, trying to calm my racing heart. He begins to roll up the sleeves of his shirt and then straightens his waistcoat. At the foot of the bed he situates himself and motions for me to move further down. As I comply, Maman clears her throat.

"Dr. Lavelle, now that my husband is gone, I do have a few concerns about this treatment. Since it is, er, located in her lower abdomen, as you put it, I am concerned as to the type of stimulation she will be receiving. And I encourage you to use plain terms with me so that I can best understand."

"If I am correct in interpreting what you mean, Madame Rougeaux, it will not be the same type of stimulation. Women do not feel relational incitement unless it is through, er, to put it plainly as you say, penetration," Dr. Lavelle says. "This is purely topical, and it will induce hysterical paroxysm, the release of the excess fluids in her system."

Maman goes red in the face but she simply nods.

Dr. Lavelle returns his full attention to me. "The first few times, it will be rather quick, so not to worry about this being a lengthy process. However, the more treatments administered it will be harder to induce the hysterical paroxysm. But by then, hopefully, you will be used to it."

I nod, gulping again. I am thankful for my pantalets shielding everything underneath my nightgown.

I am given no warning before he begins to start. His thumb presses against the aforementioned area repeatedly, searching. I bite lip, hard, until a gasp escapes my throat and I squirm against the sheets. I release a moan, uncertain of the feeling that floods through my stomach and travels lower.

He presses again, and then rolls at a steady pace. I clutch the sheets beneath me with shaking hands. I lower my back onto the bed again, my head spinning with the strange sensation that he inflicts upon my body. I whimper, and he speeds up, instigating even louder whimpers from me.

 _Mon Dieu…_

My toes curl to the point of aching. The flowing river in my body grows, brimming to the point of overflowing. I squeeze my eyes shut and my breathing escalates to shallow gasps.

Faster and faster, Dr. Lavelle continues and it begins to even hurt a little the harder he presses. Through slits in my eyes, I can't tell if he's staring at me intently or if he's focused on the treatment.

I don't have the opportunity to decide before I release a yell that echoes off the silver gilding of my boudoir mirror. My muscles loosen and my ragged breathing begins to calm. I open my eyes and blink, realizing that I feel more awake than I had before, and, surprisingly, affable.

Dr. Lavelle uses the back of his wrist to wipe a thin sheet of sweat from his brow and stands from the foot of the bed, massaging the cramped wrist and fingers of his other hand.

Maman appears at my side, placing a hand on my forehead. She searches my face, smiling when she finds that I am well.

"Thank you, Dr. Lavelle. Why I think she looks even better. She has a rosy glow to her now," Maman beams at him.

"Yes, that is a common side effect from the treatment. Mademoiselle Apolline should feel a little livelier now. Do let me know if you experience adverse effects, however. Now, if you'll excuse me," Dr. Lavelle says, his breathing heavy himself as he opens the bedroom and hastens out.

Maman smiles down at me, a relief flushing her features. "Dinner should be done in about an hour, _mon cher_. I'll have it brought up to you. Do you need anything in the meantime?"

I shake my head, managing a smile of my own. My voice hasn't found itself yet, but my response is enough to please Maman as she leaves a kiss on my forehead.

The moment I hear the click of the door closing, I release a loud sigh. I can still feel the swirls of the sensational feeling that had been stirred within me. I lift my head to gather my long hair over to one shoulder and scoot myself back onto my pillow, the cool fabric soothing my heated neck. My hand brushes over my cheeks; Maman is right, the warmth in my face is healthy and I smile.

I feel positively radiant, the heat of my cheeks spreading through my whole body. My breathing now labored, I couldn't help but feel an inquisitive pull urge me to know about what had just happened and what I felt. Putting it into words, even forming coherent thoughts about it is near impossible. It felt… intense. Yes, that is a word to describe it. But I… Dear God, help me, I am aching to feel it again.

Lifting my head, I ensure that the door is fully closed. Maman said that she'd be back up later with supper, meaning I have some time.

Gulping, my hand slowly felt its way down the front of my nightgown. My heart skips a beat as it finds the previously stimulated location between my legs.

A small fountain of nervousness wells in my chest. I know this is something I can get seriously reprimanded for if I am caught. I don't truly know what I am doing; this is something that is performed by a doctor, but I can't help but think about my question from the first examination that I asked Dr. Lavelle. No one should know the woman's body better than women themselves.

With a gentle press of the tip of my finger, I begin to roll the sensitive spot. I release a sigh, all of the nervousness draining down to my core and pooling into a lake of something so foreign to me.

I quicken the motion, much like Dr. Lavelle had. The sensation is just as intense as before, if not more sultry in a way knowing that I am alone. It makes me writhe on the bed as I continue, my legs stretching and my toes curling. The feeling grows and spreads through my whole body, encouraging me to persist longer. My neck arches off the pillow as my eyes flutter closed, relishing in the tenderness I use, unlike the painful pressure Dr. Lavelle performed. This feeling is far more _pleasurable_ than it had been. I bite my lip to keep me from making any sound, though I yearn to do so to relieve me of some of this building tension.

I begin to recognize the end nearing like a wave in the ocean building before it comes crashing down onto the shore. My back arches as it rolls over me and I let a quiet moan escape from my throat.

The tension eases from my muscles as I lowered my back onto the bed. My mind swimming for the second time that evening, I can only sort through thoughts relating to the extraordinary feelings I have just experienced from my self-induced treatment.

I had no idea such an experience existed for women.

My heart pangs upon further thought. Hysteria is supposedly a serious illness, the treatments harrowing and invasive as I've just experienced. The fear and urgency Maman feels is always worrying to me. But as I settle down from the procedure, I find myself conflicted. Dr. Lavelle told Maman a while ago that one of the cures for hysteria is intercourse with one's husband. Dr. Lavelle stated earlier that women do not feel pleasure from such acts like men do. But there is no other way for me to describe what I had just felt other than… pleasurable. If the treatment I just received and the relations with a husband relieve the same thing, I wonder if relations with one's husband feels just as similar. Is it safe to conclude that women do experience similar pleasure as men, even outside of intercourse?

The unmentionable has never been spoken to me in great detail, the subject improper and terrifying to speak of.

But if it's so bad…

Why does it feel so good?

This realization puzzles me, but still savoring in the high of my own treatment, I bury the information safely into my mind; my own little secret knowledge to keep to myself, and maybe even to use for the future.

Stretching my arms behind me with a satisfied sigh and smile, I begin to wind down as my thoughts drift to matters from earlier today, and those to come.

My eyes rove over my bedroom until they land on my writing desk and the pamphlet I had managed to seize at the rally. Hopping off my bed, I sit at the desk with the pamphlet in my hands. With another smile I open it and begin to read, taking a pen in hand to scribble down my thoughts and notes.

* * *

 **Thank you so much for reading!**


End file.
